📢 We're Staying on Patreon! + A Huge Welcome to Yeraw 🎉
Hey everyone,
I have a quick but very important update to share with all of you. Over the past half hour, I've been flooded with messages from both paying members and free readers, from Patreon and even Webnovel, and honestly—I'm so grateful for the love and support you all continue to show.
Many of you reached out saying things like:
👉 "Patreon is easier to use."
👉 "The app makes it convenient to stay updated."
👉 "Everything's smooth and familiar here."
And I totally agree. After hearing your thoughts and preferences, I've made the final decision:
✅ We are staying on Patreon for all advance chapters, NSFW extras, and exclusive content.
Why Patreon? Because it's simple, reliable, and it gives me the tools to give you the best experience possible—through app notifications, flexible payment options, and organized content that's easy to read and access anytime, anywhere.
Oh, and before I forget—please join me in giving a big, warm welcome to Yeraw, who just joined our Patreon family! 🎉 So happy to have you with us, and thank you so much for the support! 💖
And to those who are still thinking of joining us—this is the perfect time!
📚 We've already completed the First Book on Patreon.
📖 The Second Book is also fully available now, with all the exclusive chapters and scenes that were never posted anywhere else!
Whether you're here for the story, the spicy extras, or the emotional rollercoaster in between, it's all waiting for you.
👉 Join us here: patreon.com/forbidden_lust
Thank you again to everyone who reached out and helped me make this decision. This platform wouldn't be what it is without your feedback, your love, and your trust.
Let's continue this wild journey together—right here on Patreon. 🖤
With love,
Forbidden_Lust
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Word filler story if you want you can read this
The field of linguistics is a fascinating one.
Did you know that some languages don't have a word for the color blue? To them, green merges into purple in subtle gradients, skipping over a whole step that the reat of the world acknowledges as a natural step in the progression of the color wheel. They have no word for blue, only bluer shades of green and purple that fuse like flesh to the red-hot cover of a Holy Bible on the stand.
They may be right, and there was never a blue in the first place.
As I will never take the stand, this is my confession.
I neither recall my motivations, nor my justification. Neither is important. I am not the point of this story. The sole purpose of this story is a girl named O.
O like a circle, like a void, like a window, like endless possibilities. O wears her hair down in pale blonde waves, absent of elaborate styling or hair ties. O wants to be a chemist when she grows up. O does not scream at the sight of blood.
There is a pervasive misconception about a fictitious location called Torpenhow Hill. This imaginary location got its name from a rather humorous origin, that being that the name Torpenhow contains the word for "hill" in three languages; Old English, Welsh, and Norse. There is no such Torpenhow Hill, but it is amusing among linguists to imagine a place whose name translates essentially to "hill hill hill hill."
Do you know where humor comes from? It is derived from the unexpected, in its essence, but it has evolved beyond that. In order to be funny, something must be unexpected to the point of absurdity. It must be a lungful of oxygen among a polluted world, an escape from reality. Humor is funny because it is not real. It is funny because precious few of us have the luxury of escaping the reality we have constructed around us. Instead, walls we built to contain ourselves hem us in like lambs, awaiting our Shepherd to set us free.
The top of O's head reaches staunchly up to my waist, when she stands up straight. I am particularly tall, and she is particularly short, and she is young, and I have not caught up to my years just yet.
She is the bitter taste of Cabernet Sauvignon, which we all pretend to like because it is expensive, and I liked to say I was well versed in the flavors of wines. My favorite has always been champagne. She is careless and sweet, and does not taste vile.
Do you know the significance of the tongue?
I apologize for my questions. I have always preferred my conversational partners helpless to answer me.
The term "linguistics" is derived from the Latin "lingua," meaning tongue. The tongue is the source of sweltering, humid speech. Someone well-spoken has a silver tongue, someone witty and reactive has a sharp tongue, and someone who commits sins of truth shall have his tongue cut out.
O writes poetry, now that she is older. She has sworn off the tongue entirely.
I do not regret having borne witness to such a girl, all forget-me-nots and topsoil and tears for the time that I knew her. She was a shooting star until she was consumed by my flames, and I took such pleasure in watching the delicious light of her burning trail across my sky.
No, I know, I remember. This is not about me.
I testify with my whole heart to how she smiled, not quite baring her teeth for fear of becoming the lion of the desolate savanna she found herself confined to. Her smile was all taut lips and warm flesh, feverish intensity behind the shallow faked grin she gave me when I told her to act like she was enjoying herself.
She radiated warmth, as if excising every degree of it from her figure to cryopreserve what remained of her organs, so that I could never touch them.
Many languages don't have as many color words as we do in English. We have 10. Some only have 3 color names. Interestingly, there is a pretty strict order in which color names "appear" in languages. If a language has 3 terms they will be black, white, and red. If they have 4, the fourth color will be yellow or green. Same if you add a fifth. And at 6 you will get blue, then brown, and after that you will add orange, pink, purple, and grey in random order.
Red is a foreign color, one I introduced to her for the first time. She bled profusely, and something as simple as cells in her veins stained my favorite brown coat, and she did not cry.
Without that, black and white is simply the world.
I've known for a long time that I am easy to hate. I have never minded the prospect of being despised, crucified on a witness stand then put down like the dog I tried to be. It is so easy for someone to be simply evil, the product of nothing but self-indulgence and Satan Himself.
I have never paid much mind to whether or not I am evil. I did not ask if this made me evil when I tore the white lace of a new summer dress, when I took those shreds of fabric and pulled them low so that I might finally have them within my reach. I did not ask if I was evil when I grasped a shooting star in my hand and ripped it from the sky. I do not ask questions to receive answers. I ask questions to preach.
A bitter preacher is one whose following is nothing but ghosts of his own creation, but a preacher I am nonetheless.
I do not know who you are, who will happen upon my signed and sealed confession. If I still have my last wish, upon my moral conviction, I want you to make sure O is able to learn chemistry. I want you to teach her what I was deluded into thinking I could. I want you to teach her about the chemicals that comprise love, and how she can formulate them in a lab of her own making, in the middle of a desert she did not choose.
I want you to tell me how tall she is now, if her stature is still low enough to look up to me.
I want you to erase God from her mind, so that she may never fear she is on the wrong side of a dichotomy she did not choose, a checkerboard upon which one must win and one must lose.
Is it enough if I forfeit now?
I want you to tell her I never cared for her. I want you to lie to her, so that I am not the only one who has taken away her choice.
I want you to help her grow, so that I am not the only one who has ever made her feel small.
What I want doesn't matter. This was never about me.
I want you to ask her about me.
And when she tells you, I want you to take those words with you to your grave.
That way, I will not be the only witness who will die without ever taking the stand